Strange Dreams Part Four: Fais de Belles Bombes
by Oconee Belle
Summary: LeBeau had never poisoned anyone with his food. He had never hurt anyone with his food. But, then again, his food had never blown up the compound...until today.


**Strange Dreams Part Four: Fais de Belles Bombes**

**As a wise person once said, "this series can be read out of order." Well, I tried, but unless you want Part Three's plot to be spoiled, you probably should read Excusez-moi, Are You Bloody ****Serious before enjoying this one ;-)**

* * *

It was just another ordinary day in the life of a chef. Actually, a clarification is needed.

It was an ordinary day in the life of a chef that just happened to be a prisoner of war in the middle of Germany- a chef living in the secret base of Papa Bear, and cooking for a certain sergeant of the guard in hopes (or, almost guarantee) that it would bribe him for information.

_Oui, normal, __bien sûr. _Louis LeBeau savored the beautiful aroma seeping from the stove as his apple strudel rose to perfection. He could just visualize it. His delicious golden pastry that was the most renowned masterpiece of Stalag 13.

Personally, he could envision much more. His cuisine spread across the banquet tables of… he shook his head. The war must end first. And, as silly as it sounded, in a way his strudel was getting a huge honor already by hastening the end of the war.

Without his cooking, there would be no "tame" Schultzie. And without Schultz, keeping their operation a secret would be that much harder. They needed all the help they could get. Even if help came in the small size of an apple strudel cooked to perfection, or the much larger size of a Nazi guard willing to spill information as long as he could gorge himself in the process.

LeBeau grabbed a thick cloth and pulled the steaming pan from the stove. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath; momentarily reminded of the words he had once told his maman. "This is what heaven must smell like." Yes, this _had_ to be the closest the hands of man could come to making a piece of heaven.

But, _why_ was it _ticking_? He opened his eyes and felt his heart stop beating. Actually, the _only_ thing beating right now was the small, over cooked _bomb_ in the pan.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Sacrè chat!" LeBeau swallowed hard, trying not to shake the pan in his trembling hands. This was the smaller version of the real thing, but it was still very…real.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

In panic, LeBeau looked all around, wondering what to do. No one was in the barracks. It was all unearthly silent. In just a few more seconds he'd be _up there_, finding out what heaven _really_ smelled like.

"Non," LeBeau set his chin. This was _not_ how _he_ was going to die. He glared into the cake pan, almost daring the bomb to explode. Where could he take it? What was he supposed to do with a pan full of baked bomb?

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Slowly, very slowly, LeBeau started for the door. Gently, tensely, he pressed against the door with his back and it creaked open, letting the sunlight stream in.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

LeBeau blinked in the bright light. No noise outside. Everything was still. Not a soul to be seen. Just _him_ and the bomb.

He looked into the cake pan. He had no idea how to defuse a bomb, and Carter was no where in sight. It was just _him_, standing in the middle of an empty POW camp, with a bomb counting down to who knows what. He felt himself start to slide towards panic. Where _was_ everyone?

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

A soft breeze stirred up the dust in the compound. The basket ball net shivered, torn like a spider's web. No footprints. No Germans. No prisoners. No friends. No bright red Nazi Flag.

Just a rundown camp and the pounding of his heart. Just the ticking of the bomb.

"Colonel?"

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

LeBeau steadied his breathing and slowly set the bomb down in the middle of the compound. He looked all around one more time. He was alone. That meant there was nothing here he needed to save. His friends had disappeared. So, he touched his beloved chef's hat and ran.

As fast as he could. He took off for the wire and lifted it, dashing through the secret exit and ran for the next one. He rolled under that one and made a mad dash for the woods.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

He only glanced back once. And that's when he saw that the camp was alive again. Prisoners walked about. Nazi guards patrolled the wire. And then, his four closest friends...they were all outside the barracks.

Newkirk was taking a long drag from his cigarette. Kinch and Carter were playing cards on the bench. Colonel Hogan was looking straight at him, arms wrapped around his chest, smiling. Smiling. And the bomb was about to blow.

LeBeau's mouth went dry. "Colonel! There's a bomb!"

Hogan didn't seem to hear him. He just lifted his hand in a casual wave- the kind that says goodbye.

"NON!" LeBeau tried to run back towards camp, tried to warn his friends of the bomb, but his feet were planted to the ground. He couldn't run. He could barely walk. "MON COLONEL, YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND! THERE IS A BOMB IN THE COMPOUND!"

This time all of his friends looked up. Newkirk took the cigarette out of his mouth and waved, smiling. Carter held up his hand of cards with a lopsided grin and Kinch just nodded. None of them got it. None of them moved. They all just smiled.

LeBeau rushed forward, trying to break free from the wet concrete that seemed to hold his feet in place. The horrible lead feet that separated him from his friends. "Run! Je vous en prie! Run! There is a bomb in the compound! Mes amis, you must run!"

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. **BOOM! **

Stalag 13 went up in flames.

Tears rushed to LeBeau's eyes. Nothing was left.

And then, the warm cards Carter had been holding lay scattered at his feet. Two pairs of chard paper remained. *One pair of black Aces. One pair of black eights. The fifth card from the hand wasn't there.

LeBeau shuttered. The fifth card was him- the fifth Hero. Not there with the rest of his friends. Like a smudge wiped off of a glass picture frame, but still there, ever so faintly. And how he wished he wasn't.

He lifted his tear-filled eyes. Stalag 13 had been wiped off the map. By his own bomb.

"Mon Dieu," he whispered, suddenly able to run. He lunged for the wreckage, tripped, and was thrown face-first on the hard ground. It hurt.

"Oi, Louie!" someone grabbed his arm. "Mate, wake up! You don't 'ave to sleep on the floor, you bloke."

LeBeau slowly lifted his head from the cold, stone floor. "Pierre?"

"It's about time you recognized me voice! LeBeau, you sleep like a rock, and scream like a bird."

"Comment?" LeBeau sat up and rubbed his head. "It was a dream? Oh, merci Dieu!" He had never thought he'd be happy to see the walls of the cooler around him, but _this_ had to be the _one_ exception. "It was a dream!"

"I'd say," Newkirk gave him a hand and pulled him up. "I've only seen you throw yourself at _birds_ before tonight, and by the sounds of it, that was no party with a pretty fraulein."

LeBeau rolled his eyes, "I only wish it was that lovely."

"Least then _I _wouldn't be the one with the bleedin' 'eadache."

LeBeau glared at him. It made no difference. It was too dark to see anything. But, after waking up from witnessing his friends explode, he wasn't exactly in the mood to laugh along and to pretend Newkirk's joke was funny. "You have no heart! It is a _miracle_ that you are still alive!"

"At last, we agree on something," Newkirk quipped. LeBeau couldn't blame him. Whenever life presented a touchy situation, Newkirk's first reaction was to lighten the mood at all costs. And sometimes, his version of 'lightening' didn't quite have the desired effect.

"_I _didn't laugh at _you_ last night when you had that ridiculous dream that _I_ was from _England_!" LeBeau growled, plopping down on the cot. "And you cursed me in my own beautiful language, too!"

"Me mum always said I 'ad a knack for that," Newkirk smirked sarcastically. He sat down on the hard floor and looked up at his friend.

LeBeau was still glaring.

"Cor, if I must, I must. What was it about, Louie?"

"It was nothing, Pierre. I'm sorry I woke you."

Shaking his head, Newkirk shrugged. "Louis, you're one puzzle, mate. First, you practically beg me to ask you, and then you clam up," he paused and sighed. "Well, G'night then." He got up and went over to the cot on the far wall, hands in his pockets.

LeBeau lay back down on the cot and closed his eyes. Maybe he'd tell him one day, once he understood it all himself. But, right now, the last thing he wanted was to think about a dream where he had killed his friends.

Tomorrow he might share it, but hopefully tonight would be enough to erase it from his memory. Then, he could wake up and have no idea what he dreamed the night before. With that thought in mind, he softly whispered, "Bonne nuit, Pierre. _Fais de beaux rêves_."

Fin

**Author's Note: **

**The cards in Carter's hand are a reference to an unlucky hand of cards called 'Dead Man's Hand'. The pairs of black aces and black eights are said to be the hand Wild Bill Hickok had when he was shot in the back of the head during a poker game on August 2, 1876. The fifth card he had still remains a mystery. **

**Although LeBeau, being French, probably wouldn't know that, I still wanted to weave it into the story since it is considered to be so unlucky. **

**Translations:**

**Oui, normal, bien sûr- yes, normal indeed (or, yes, normal, of course. I'm not 100% sure on this one)**

**Maman- mother**

**Sacrè chat- Holly cats!**

**Je vous en prie- please (as in, begging you to _PLEASE..._)**

**Merci Dieu- thank God**

**Comment?- What?**

**Bonne nuit- goodnight**

**Fais de beaux rêves literally means 'make beautiful dreams' and is the French equivalent to 'sweet dreams'. **

**Fin-end**

**Fais de belles bombes-make beautiful bombs…**

**I hope ya'll are enjoying this series! Only one more to go, and I bet you'll never guess who it's about. Don't worry, it will be posted sooner than this one. This story had several French phrases, and I tried my best with them. They may be a bit off, as I am currently learning Spanish. I hope to take French next year. It really is a beautiful language.**


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